Devil May Cry 100 Theme Challenge
by Mira Silvia
Summary: I decided to use this to keep my writing sharp and further develop the story/world of "Family: It's Complicated". I won't be going in order, but updates will be fairly regular. Rating may go up due to the language/violence in some drabbles. There will be five drabbles per chapter.
1. Chapter 1

23. Cat

Dante and the kids were out clearing the wilderness that was the house's yard...they'd move on to taming the surrounding property when they could get to it. Val and Alec were working as a fairly efficient team on a large thicket of brambles, Nero was going for broke on the ivy that was strangling the trees, and Dante was left to deal with the garden shed. Thanks kids.

Shifting though the old tools(some had come with the house—which had been built in the Victorian era, so when he said old, he meant _old_) Dante put the usable one to the side, and threw anything useless(i.e. Rusted, unrecognizable, encrusted in he-didn't-want-to-know-what) over his shoulder into a steadily growing pile.

Reaching deep into a yet another stack of garden implements, he retracted his hand when he received a long scratch and heard a very pissed-off sounding hiss and snarl. Good gos, he hated cats; and they hated him. Big time. Swearing fluently, he set about trying to chase the feline out from it's little fort.

Eventually(and not without further injury), he managed to drive the beast from it's lair. With a triumphant cry he said, "Take that, you mangy ball of fur!"

By this time, the swearing and noise had drawn the kids over to the shed. As the cat bolted from the shed, Val captured the struggling animal. Somehow avoiding the claws and teeth, she began soothing it.

Dante stepped out of the shed, spotted Val and _It_ and suddenly felt a sense of foreboding.

Val looked at him and smiled, "What do you think of the name Schrodinger?"

_Shit_,_ name it and it stays_, Dante sighed, "Whatever..."

26. Tears

Lady glanced around the shop. What a dump. She'd finally tracked Dante down and this is where he's been? Where the hell was Vergil? Didn't he keep his brother from living in a pigsty of pizza boxes and dirty laundry? She couldn't say she was all that fond of the elder twin—but he did keep Dante in line and out of (most) trouble.

Walking toward the desk in the back, she almost tripped over her quarry, eliciting a pained groan. Looking down, she saw that Dante was sprawled across the filthy floor of the _hovel_, for lack of a better term. "What the hell Dante?! You just up and disappeared! None of your contacts knew anything—no clue, no note...I can't even find Vergil to help me track your sorry ass down!" She briefly considered shooting him...but thought better of it. For now.

Dante rolled into a somewhat sitting position, mumbling, "Lady? Why're ya so loud?"

Lady's eyes widened, he had been drinking, he was hungover. It took _massive_ amounts of alcohol to make him even _tipsy_. "You got _DRUNK?! Y_ou irresponsible _asshole!_ Don't you remember what can _happen_? Why Vergil never drinks? Where is he, anyways?" She glanced around, as though expecting the blue twin to walk through the front door and begin verbally flaying his twin.

Dante held his head, "He's dead, isn't he? 'Cause I'm a fucking idiot, and he's too goddamn noble...We're a double act..." He trailed off.

Lady shut her mouth in shock. Vergil, dead? The twins were damn-near indestructible. She'd learned that much in the year or so she'd known them. Dante's wrong—he's still drunk...

A sound she didn't quite recognize reached her ears. Looking back down at Dante she realized that it came from him. He was crying.

11. Memory

As Nero ran past, Val in hot pursuit, laughing over something he did to set his cousin off(which could have been damn near anything), Dante dodged toward the kitchen, never spilling a drop of coffee—practice makes perfect. Smiling, he sat at the dining room table, listening as Myra lectured Alec about why "Could hack the school computer system" and "Should hack the school computer system" were two different things.

As Nero and Val ran past again—Val rattling off some very creative death threats, he sense impending destruction and hollered after them, "Take it easy you two! I don't think the wards can take much more of this!" Then he stopped.

His father had said exactly the same thing, all those years ago, to him and Verge. Shaking his head to clear the memory, Dante finished his coffee and turned to talk to Myra.

"Give the kid a break Myra—it was damn hilarious!"

1. Introduction

Running her fingers along the books, she finally found the volume she'd been searching for. It was obscure, to be sure—but one doesn't earn top grade on history essays in Prof. Killian's class by rehashing what all other students have. And Myra flatly refused to accept anything lower than a B.

However, someone else had reached for the same book at the same time. Myra deftly slipped her hand beneath the questing pale digits of her competitor, fetching the book. Following the blue-clad arm back to it's owner, she couldn't help but pause. The man was tall—very much so—clad in mildly formal blue and black attire(it's nearly ninety degrees out! How is he not suffering heatstroke?), and his handsome features seemed quite at home in the shape of a scowl—which was currently directed full force at Myra. However, the most notable aspect of his appearance was his prematurely white/silver hair that swept back into spikes—he couldn't have been much older than Myra herself.

A voice full of ice broke Myra from her musings, "Excuse me, miss...but that would be mine." He indicated the book.

Myra pretended to examine the tome, skimming through the pages, "Really? What's your name?"

"I hardly see how that is relevant," he growled.

Myra snapped the book shut, "So I can see where it says 'property of'...well, since I don't know your name, 'property of arrogant SOB'." And with that, she turned on her heel to leave.

Vergil growled slightly and followed the arrogant, maddening human woman who dared take the book he had clearly reached for first...

2. Love

He sat there for who knows how long, locked in his own mind, away from the pain and humiliation they inflicted. He no longer knew how to come out again—he was safe and sane here though, why would he want to leave?

Memories were all he had now. Memories of her laugh—it was a little throaty and rough but darkly beautiful at the same time; her smirk—a sure sign that her own variants of heaven or hell were about to pay him a visit; even her anger. To him, all of these things were unparallelled in their beauty, like the thought of food to a starving man.

Reading with her, sitting together on the couch pointing out historical inaccuracies in popular movies, even their fights(oh, and could she argue, his beautiful fury). Even wrathful, she was an angel in his mind.

He had lost so much: dignity, sanity(a least in part, he was sure), likely a portion of his humanity—but he still had love. He still had his love.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Some of these will begin to make sense later on in the series for "It's Complicated". Some of my dear readers already will have their guesses, I'm sure. XD**

46. Family

Unknown Location, Eastern Europe, May, 1982:

She watched him from a distance and scowled. He had sent the girl off to bed an hour ago with a kiss on the head. Even read a bedtime story—some tripe about a demon that turned against hell. He was going soft, filling the girl's head with such fantasies—this world's demons were very much human and rather ubiquitous; and never helpful(useful, yes, but to be disposed of quickly). She added those sentiments to the list of things she would be training out of Di in the coming years—the girl needed to be strong, not some sentimental damsel. What was Vladimir thinking? She shook her head and tracked his movement as he walked onto the veranda, never glancing at the tree she perched in.

He thought he was safe and secure! She realized. He thought that a simple, slight change of looks and convoluted travel plan would keep her from their path—fool! His once midnight hair was now a light blond to match her own, _Oh, ever the joker, hmm, Vladimir?_ And he had been walking in such a way so as to hide his true stature. It would have worked—on a novice. But she knew him far too well for tricks like that to work.

Dropping from the tree to a spot directly behind him, she initiated the quiet fight(neither wanted to wake up Di...one out of care, one because it make things easier later) with a harsh blow and a whispered, "Miss me, _dear_?"

He whirled, halting the blow, "Another dance then, Elenore?" before returning in kind.

36. Precious Treasure

Rural Oregon, 1988:

She lay back in the meadow, watching the clouds roll by. It was so...peaceful here. It was such an alien concept to her—no running, no hiding, no fighting, no _training, _no 'lessons', just..laying there. She glanced back at the old farm house, thinking about the kindly occupants. They'd given her a name, a home, a family...she'd always miss her father, but he would recognize that this was for the best. He'd only ever tried to give her a childhood. Those brief memories would always be with her, treasured forever...He always had such a nice baritone voice—rough from the life he led, but soft and caring at the same time. She closed her eyes and remembered the last bedtime story he'd ever read to her, his grey eyes—the same as her own—shining with happiness, and clutched a worn copy of Легенда о Спарда to her chest, smiling.

16. Questioning

Detective Morris glared at the youth sitting opposite him in the interrogation. The kid(he couldn't have been more than nineteen) had his boot clad feet up on the table and was leaning back in the chair as though he didn't care that they had him detained on suspicion of murder. Damn punks these days...and what was with his dye-job? Morris had seen some crazy hair on the scum he brought in, but a bleach job so that it was white-ish silver? Now _that's _a new one. So was the red leather coat...

Morris stood up and paced around behind the kid—make him uncomfortable—break him. "So...Anthony Schwarze—if that's your name—where were you last night? Around eleven p.m.?"

'Anthony' took his time to answer, stretching, "Me? I was at a party...pretty lame though, no babes." He paused, thinking, "Well, there was one—but she wasn't my type. Oh, and it's 'Tony' dude, seriously."

Morris frowned, "Would this 'party' have been at _The Devil's Advocate_?"

Tony snorted, "Why the hell would a guy like me go to a place like that?"

"Witnesses place you at the club during what was reported to be a large-scale murder spree," Morris stated coldly.

Tony smirked, "Reported to be? Show me the evidence, Detective."

_Damn, damn, damn, _Morris silently cursed, "Why the hell should I do that for a punk like you?"

"Like my brother's always sayin': habeus corpus," Tony smiled. He glanced at his watch, "Isn't your time just about up?"

The door opened and a cold voice answer, "So it is, brother...Detective, he's been released by your superiors."

Morris turned to see his suspect's double(right down to that freaky hair—was it actually something genetic?) standing in the doorway accompanied by a uniformed officer who was glancing nervously at the newcomer. The officer spoke up, "He's telling the truth, sir—we're supposed to release Schwarze."

Morris glared, but obliged.

The next day, none of his contacts could find anything on the Schwarze brothers—they had just appeared two months ago, and were already gone. That smelled damn fishy to Morris, and he made sure that all of his friends, contacts—even a few enemies, knew that he was looking for those two.

He'd get them, and complete that questioning. He knew 'Tony' at least was guilty, and his brother was at least complicit...if not an active participant.

If they ever came back to New York, he'd hear about it. Then he'd have 'em.

55. Waiting

She finished serving up the two bowls of ice cream—one strawberry, and the other vanilla with blueberries—and closed her eyes for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. Sometimes it would just sneak up and strike her.

It had been nearly three years. Three long years since she had smelled his favourite blend of tea in the morning, since she had shared her bed and had someone to cuddle up to at night, since she would tease him about his love of purple, since she had seen him sitting in the living room, reading _The Divine Comedy_ with Dante and Vergil napping on either side of him.

It was three years...but it felt far longer. She told herself she was just waiting for him to come home, store away his weapons, shed his jacket and begin sipping a cup of tea, just as he always had. Just waiting for when the twins came charging into the room and just about tackled him. Waiting to see his little half-smile again.

Another, growing part of her consciousness knew that no amount of waiting would do.

Grabbing a bowl in each hand, she exited the kitchen, calling, "Boys! Ice cream!" and smiled as they came charging into the dining room.

75. Mirror

Both of them agreed it would be best of they met this contact together—just in case things got out of hand. So Dante borrowed one of Vergil's suits and bought a red tie...then sat through Vergil criticizing the job he did of tying the damn thing("What's the fucking difference between a fourhand knot and a winner knot?" _"Four in hand,_ and _Windsor_, you imbecile—and there is a world of difference!")

So now they were getting out of the (rented) car, and walking toward the party ("gala" Vergil had called it... "Party" Dante had corrected), hair combed in identical fashion(eerily close to how their father used to comb his hair), suits so similar they may as well be the same, the ties the only difference. Sometimes playing at being perfect mirrors of each other worked to their advantage. Especially when dealing with devils who still had memories of Sparda fresh in their minds.

The contact was ever so willing to answer their questions—amazing how _helpful_ some of the lesser devils could be.

75. Mirror(alt.)

He never really looked in the mirror anymore. Why bother? He'd learned how to shave without it years ago. If he nicked himself, it wasn't like the cut stuck around for long. He knew how he looked. He didn't need a piece of silvered glass to tell him. His hair saw a comb often enough(in his opinion). It wasn't as though there was a use for the damn thing...

Accept on the 22nd of June.

He sighed sadly at his reflection.

"Happy Birthday, bro..."


	3. Chapter 3

51. Sport

He liked to think that he gave a sporting chance to some of them—y'know, in the interest of being fair. It had absolutely nothing to do with keeping things entertaining. Nothin'... Though it might have had somethng to do with giving them a taste of their own medicine...

He stalked down the alleyway, eyes glinting slightly in the darkness. He knew that this sort of lighting always did that...Lady never failed to let him know that it was 'creepy'. He mentally shrugged—she didn't complain when it let him save her sorry—scratch that, _really nice_ ass from one of the stealthier demons they had been hunting. On that note...that little business suit get-up really did wonders-

Movement.

He spun to the left, Rebellion singing through the air. The low-level devil he had been hunting cried out as it was wounded in the leg. Dante smirked, "Ya shouldn't try to hunt the hunter."

The devil spat something foul in it's native tongue.

"Hey—watch it, you should know that insulting my parents isn't good for _anyone's _health," Dante said, coldly smiling as he stabbed his quarry through the hand. Far from fatal, but painful—if the keens and wails were anything to go by. "Geez—Is this what hell's been spawning in the last half millennium? Remind me why humans are supposed to fear you guys?" He watched as it tried to make it down the alley and counted down silently as he strolled casually after it.

He watched, smirk never having left his face, as it stumbled slightly from the earlier wound. He called out, as though talking about the weather, "So...how do you like it?"

As he loomed over it, it stammered, "Wha—what do you mean, halfbreed?"

Dante's expression didn't seem to change, but it did get even colder—if that was possible, "Oh, you know..._fear, terror and pain_. Exactly like that family last week—you remember them don't you? A mother and two children..."

The devil seemed to suddenly comprehend what deep shit he was in, his eyes widening. He done something that reminded a cambion hunter known throughout the devil and hunter communities of his own painful past. He suddenly recalled that though by his kind's standards the hunter before him was firmly in the 'nestling' age range(moreso for the cambion's father's bloodlines), by human standards, the hunter was an adult—shaped and tempered by pain, loss, and experience. And a powerful adult by most anyone's standards.

The devil suddenly realized that all the times he'd almost made good an escape was...was _sport _to this hunter_. _Was meant to make him feel like prey...

He whimpered slightly.

19. Gray

Grey...that's what he saw in the mirror. He'd always known the color of his eyes, of course. Slate grey, sometimes edging more toward graphite—the same as his mother. This past year(and then some), he'd become more aware them—that was for sure. They marked him as odd man out in the house. Sure, mom was there too...but she wasn't in the same boat, not really. Val, Nero and all the rest had that same color of bright blue that he'd seen shift to silver once in awhile. His grey eyes marked him as not belonging.

Alec could curse his paternity all he wanted, think up creative ways to get revenge on Thomas for years of misery, remind himself that most of the house had accepted him as family, or at least a friend...but his eyes would always be a reminder, especially on the days he spotted flecks of brown in them.

56. Danger Ahead

While Dante was instructing Val in how to properly wield a sword, Alec was learning what his mother had termed 'basic self-defense'...basic. Right.

It included such fun lessons as how to use _anything_ (and he meant anything) as a weapon. For example—you'd think that an mp3 player was pretty harmless, right? Wrong. Apparently, the wire for the earbuds could double as a garrote wire. Who knew?

And then there were the multitude things to remember about how to move, where to put your feet, how to guard, how to not telegraph your next move—Alec fleetingly wondered where the hell his mother had learned all of this. Then briefly wondered if he really wanted to know. No, he decided, he didn't, not at the moment anyway. There was enough danger ahead without any more stuff from his mother's past coming to light.

53. Keeping a Secret

Nero double checked the lock on the door before sitting on his bed with a tired sigh. He didn't quite know what to think of the day...his..._aunt?_ (Strange...he'd gone from little to no family to all of this in the time of a few months) He didn't know what to make of her...did she really care, or was she just reacting to the situation? He sighed again.

He took the glove off his right hand and rolled up his sleeve, wondering how bad the damage was today. Damn. It was definitely spreading, from his hand on up to his elbow..and...dammit! Was his upper arm turning fucking _blue?!_ Why him?

Nobody else had something like this—they all looked completely fucking normal. So why was he like this? Was he somehow more of a devil than the others? He snorted at the thought; he may not know much about genes, but he was pretty sure they didn't work like that.

Maybe he'd tell the old man about it soon...

but for now, he was keeping his freakishness a secret, thank you very much.

**AN: yes, I know there's only four here-but there was a sixth last chapter, and I'm damnably busy at the moment. My most humble apologies, and thanks for reading :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: The real(sorta) update. I was in a good mood, finally had ten minutes of free time, and so, here's this**

**Also; rest assured "It's Complicated" will be updated again in mid-June; this is just a lot easier to find time to work on.**

65. Horror

Val sat in her usual place in the sitting room, tea to the left, book in hand. This volume, however, was not one her father's many notebooks or journals; it was one of the sources he used. She frowned in concentration. The dialect it was written in was difficult at best(though thankfully, it _was_ some form of English), and this was not helped by the fact that the author seemed quite mad. The information seemed sound, it was extracting it from the babble that was the trick. The book also had a strange smell to it; foreign and familiar all at the same time. She was quite accustomed (even enjoyed ) the musty smell that accompanied most older tomes; though her favourite time as far as that went was the late nineteenth century. _Those _books simply smelled _right_. Unlike the one before her. It had something about it that was just..._wrong_. It wasn't any devilish wards; Other hadn't put up a stink(and wasn't feeling too helpful either, "Oh, what, it creeps you out? Pfft—coward! Or for you, Ms. Erudite—poltroon!"), but the darn thing had something distinctly _wrong_ about it.

Snapping the book shut, Val looked it over. It was about as thick as her copy of the complete works of William Shakespeare, and similarly bound in leather. Said leather was a sort of yellowish-brown, stamped so as to depict hellish images and script, and inlaid with the occasional semi-precious stone, usually serving as a devil's eye.

It was detailed, but nothing that should set off her gut-instinct in anyway.

Contemplating the volume, she strolled from the room, in quest of any notes that might exist upon it. There had to be something...unless she was imagining it?

_Finally considering that, huh? Give the girl a prize!_ Other snarked.

Val scowled, _Oh, shut up, there __**is**__something about this. _

_Um...it's __**boring**__? Just sayin'..._

Val took a deep breath and considered counting to ten, but was interrupted by realizing that her uncle was staring at the book she had tucked under her arm. She was about to ask why when he sighed, "Of _course_ you'd find the only—well, I _hope_ it's the only—book in Verge's collection bound in freakin' human _skin..._"

Realization donned on Val, "Anthropodermic bibliopegy...I knew there was _something..._"

Dante said, "Say what kiddo?"

Val shook her head, "The practice of binding books in human skin...where the _hell_ did he find _this?_" She held it at arm's length.

Dante smiled, "Nice to know you have the usual reaction...Vergil never did..." he shuddered slightly, "The damn thing's creepy as hell...anyway, he picked it up in a devilish library we came across in a tower that was a gateway to hell." He glared slightly at the book, "Damn, I hate that thing...it's just so..."

Val aimed her own scowl at the object, "Wrong?...I won't deny that there is use in it as a resource, but it...it feels unclean."

"Now imagine walking through an entire building that feels like that, kiddo." Dante said.

Val shuddered, "Dangerous job indeed."

"Eh, that was more family business than anything," Dante said offhandedly, "Now would ya' put that thing back wherever it was buried?"

"Not a problem..." Val said as she marched off to do just that. Useful resource be damned.

98. Puzzle

Val recalled how, once, she had seen a locked box amongst her mother's belongings marked "Вергилий". It had thoroughly puzzled her, seeing as she knew absolutely no Cyrillic at the time. Now, as she studied Russian, it was a puzzle no longer. She smiled slightly.

92. All That I Have

He watched silently, unseen, as they went about their business in the evening's lengthening shadows. The mother laughed as two of her children ran around her, playing a mix between tag and wrestling in the snow. Both the children—twin boys—had matching reddish brown hair and green eyes. They yelled and shouted at each other in the way brothers were wont to do. He smiled to himself, memories of long ago welling up in his consciousness.

Now the father approached the group; a tall, well-built man with platinum hair, grey eyes, and a warm smile. He was carrying a little girl, the boys' sister. She clung to her father, hiding her face, and a cap hid her hair, protecting her from the cold. As the two parts of the family met, the little girl was handed to her mother, and the boys nearly tackled their father in greeting. The happy family laughed and talked together.

There. Movement at the edge of the trees.

Demons burst forth from the woods, heading directly for the oblivious family. The father was first to notice, and leapt in front of the others, yelling at them to run and not look back—but their retreat was cut off by more demons. The mother skidded to a halt in the snow, nearly losing her footing, and placed the children behind her, trying to shield them with her body.

Just as a scythe was about to cleave her in two, gunshots rang out and the demon fell, dead in the now sullied snow. Searching for her savior, her eyes fell upon a man in red who was charging into the thick of the demons, shooting any that got too close to her family.

As quickly as the fight began, it was over. The man approached the family, "You all okay?"

The father quickly glanced at his wife for confirmation, "Just shaken up—what were those things?"

The man smiled sadly, "Probably best that you don't know."

"I—Thank you..." it's all he could think to say to this man.

The man shrugged, "All I have at this point..." and walked off, leaving a shaken, albeit safe and whole, family behind him.

The father fetched the girl's cap from where it had fallen in the snow, shook it off, and gently put it back over her white hair.

20. Fortitude

Vergil paced the halls of his mental fortress. It was quite an impressive structure, to be sure. High walls, reinforced so as to withstand most any force—even Mundus. Vergil was rather proud of _that_ accomplishment, he felt the dark emperor's anger at being denied access to his mind. _And Dante said that meditation was a waste of time_. It was small comfort, considering, but comfort it was.


End file.
